Size 7

This is probably more funny to me than it will be to most of you, my readers. But I found it so funny at the time that I almost busted a gut trying not to laugh out loud.

There's a Monty Python skit (Quiet Ron, and bear with me) where John Cleese answers a phone and all you hear is his side of the conversation. The conversation was nothing but Cleese responding 'yes' to the apparent questions coming from the caller. The reverie was only interrupted once.

Cleese was responding, and I'm including the interruption for brevity's sake, "Yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...size 7...yes...yes...yes...yes" and so on until he hung up. Or the skit ended, I don't remember which.

One day at the Shop me Pops answered a phone call. And I tell you true his entire end of the conversation was Yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes...yes... and so forth. From back at my workbench in the old barn, near enough the office that I could of course hear, all I could think was, "If he says size 7 I'm going to lose it."

There you have it. Funny for me, and hopefully at least enough to bring a smile to your face.

Subtle Joe Cosgriff

As all friends and relatives would attest, as a rule Grandpa Joe had a less than subtle way of getting his point across. Still, there were times when he could be impressively restrained while making his point well understood.

He rented arc welders. Some of these weighed 1100 or 1200 pounds, so when they were shipped they had to be loaded by an electric hoist or crane onto the back of a pickup truck or flatbed. They tended to swirl in a gentle circle as they were raised or lowered. Sometimes they would have to be raised several stories, and as a boy of about 15 I had gotten into the bad habit of standing nearly under the machines as they were raised, simply to watch the twirl.

One day while out on a job site with Joe, I was doing just that. Without a word he stepped near enough for me to hear. Looking up at the welder too as it rose he asked, "We used to have an old dog that would watch from underneath as we raised a load. You know what we did with him?"

"No, what?" I asked in return, only half listening and still looking up.

"We buried him."

As his point slowly dawned on me, and as he had already walked away, I took several steps from the action myself. Dummy me wasn't thinking that things can fall, and that half-ton things falling a long way can hurt you bad.

Point taken, Joe.

Still a Favorite

I still get tickled over this story.

My oldest son is a veteran, and I am very proud of him for that. And his service has also given me a pulling the leg on people opportunity which I get a lot of miles on.

You see, he was a prison guard. That meant of course that he spent over a year stationed at Fort Leavenworth, site of the US military's largest prison. For most folks, that's the extent of their knowledge on the garrison.

Consequently, I got a lot of Dad joke mileage on that fact. Friends would come up to me and say, "So I hear your son's in the Army."

"Yep," I'd answer plainly.

"Where's he at?"

I would answer simply, "Leavenworth."

This would always be followed by a pause as they processed information which clearly stunned them. Eventually they would ask, sheepishly, "Leavenworth?" And I would respond, "Yep. Couldn't be more proud of the boy."

There would be another pause as they tried to think what to say next. But after letting them hang for a few seconds I would say, "He's a prison guard. He's on the right side of the bars." It's funny how much relief they showed when I would finally admit whole story. Many of them would audibly sigh when I let the cat out of the bag.

Have I properly thanked you son, for feeding my impish sense of humor?

Key to History

How many of you have old keys hanging around? Maybe they're on your key ring, or perhaps in your junk drawer. At the Shop, we have keys hanging on nails right inside the office door, most of which haven't been used in ages. 

Some are the keys to cars which have long met the compactor.  I know that one key is for the last flatbed truck we had for delivering welders. That truck's been gone 30 years. We also still have the key from a 1961 Ford delivery truck. That truck Joe bought from 7-Up; you could see the 7-Up logo where it was painted over on the driver's door. Smaller keys are old shop locks for padlocks which are who knows where. Most of them have not been touched since well before Pops died, and he's been gone more than 12 years now.

Why don't we get rid of them? I dunno. It's habit to have them there I suppose. One key is attached to a key ring which has the baby from the first Incredibles cartoon. That's, what, 2004? The baby is no longer bald but has a nice head of dust hair. It's to be expected I suppose, after hanging inside the doorway for close to 21 years now.

Some of those keys might even fit locks we still have if we were to try and find them. I'm not fired up to find out though. I suspect me kids when clearing out the old barn hopefully way, way into the future, will wonder why the hell we kept them, and just toss them out. 

Yet the joke is on them. A few keys are actually painted to the woodwork, although I will admit it's kinda sad that we didn't bother taking them down the last time we painted. 

Ah, hell. I'll just call it art.

Cloyce Pays My Price

A plumber whom I deal with, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, isn't a bad guy, but he can be a bit pushy, especially about price. In the old barn last week as he was purchasing a few items the usual question came up. "Can you do a little better, Marty?"

I deftly yet purposely changed the subject. "I saw your selfie on Facebook where you were at the Lions game this past Sunday."

"Yeah! Great game. Glad I could be there."

I agreed. "No doubt. Great seats too?" 

Beginning to suspect an ulterior motive, Cloyce answered warily, "Yeessss."

"Cool beans," I replied before continuing, "Did you ask the Lions for a better price, or did you just buy the tickets?"

"Okay, Cosgriff, what do I owe you?" he asked, kind of embarrassed.

I call that point made.

October Hessel

We all know, that is, we baseball fans know, that October baseball is special. I can tell you that October Hessel is special too.

To be sure, I enjoy it. It has its own charm compared to the summer. But the days are shorter and the change more stunning because you don't notice the days getting shorter quite as profoundly in the day to day world where you live. It's as if sunset were suddenly 7 PM at home in late September. You're here in July, then you're here the first weekend of October. The difference is striking.

I was star gazing from the front porch at 6 AM today. I drove 'into town', Cedarville, all of three miles away for a coffee a few minutes later. There wasn't even a hint of dawn as I ventured east, the brights on as I drove.

The Sun is lower in the southern horizon this time of year, and for lack of a better term it seems unfocused, as through sent through a diffuser of sorts. Yet it's fierce enough to drive me off the porch by Noon whereas I can read there comfortably until around 2:30 in June. Then there's the Halloween decorations, which feel really incongruent to area. Neat, yes. But incongruent where you aren't a native. 

But, it's Hessel. Even though I will spend today working (telecommuting is another weird thing about October Hessel) you can't beat that. When I close the laptop, I'm Up North. I can't say that at home.

The Cloyce Serenade

I'm not against music. Honest, I'm not. But my tastes are limited (give me Johnny Cash over Lady Yada or Masta Rappa Thugface any day) and I think there's a time and a place for it. After maybe having the radio on, our old Shop is not ever the time or place. Especially for live music.

One day as I was working alone in the old barn an old family friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, appeared. He helped himself to a cup of coffee and we chatted as I fixed cables.

A little while later a plumber came in. I'll call her Anne, which is not her real name, because she may not care for this memory. Anne was one of the few women plumbers at the time, which was around 35 years ago. Anyway, I stopped what I was doing to do a quick repair on the drain machine she had brought in. She and I and Cloyce chit chatted.

Cloyce asked if Anne liked music. She warily answered yes. "Well, I play a little bit," Cloyce responded. He went outside and brought back his guitar. And he began, there's no other way to say it, serenading Anne.

Anne was clearly embarrassed by the attention. I was embarrassed for her. She looked at me with an awkward, pleading smile, the kind which asks, 'What's all this then?' quite emphatically. I sheepishly half smiled in return and kind of shrugged my shoulders. Making it a point by then to hurry up the repair, I soon had Anne's machine done. Cloyce strummed his guitar, staring longingly at Anne the whole while.

I don't think she was more glad to leave the old barn. I know I was never, no offense to you of course Anne, more glad to see her leave. And I doubt to this day Cloyce even realizes how weird the whole thing was.

We thankfully did not lose Anne as a customer, though I would not have held it against her. Although, perhaps, I might have wrote a ballad about it.